


In the Trenches

by jinlin5



Series: Husbands and Shit [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Hallucinations, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mentioned Mama Milkovich, Mentioned Monica Gallagher, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 10, Protective Mickey Milkovich, mickey hates hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlin5/pseuds/jinlin5
Summary: “Fuck. I know, I’m sorry Mick.” Ian apologizes. Since they’ve been married for nearly a year and a half now, he’s gotten slightly better at admitting he’s wrong right away, instead of playing a few dozen rounds of the blame game before coming to the same conclusion anyway.  “I was trying to figure out how to tell you without scaring the shit outta you.”“How about- ‘Yo, I’m seeing my dead mom alive and in the fuckin’ flesh over here’. That woulda worked.” Mickey rolls his eyes, but Ian doesn’t take it personally. He knows by now how Mickey shows that he’s concerned- it’s passive aggressive, with an emphasis on aggressive- but it’s a very Mickey type of care and Ian’s learned to love it._________________________________________________________________Another window into Ian and Mickey’s marriage. How they’re working with the realities of Ian’s disorder, and how they’re dealing with their traumatic histories- both shared and separate. Prescriptions, parents, and possibilities.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husbands and Shit [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713814
Comments: 16
Kudos: 215





	In the Trenches

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to @camnoelgallavich for being the best beta and hype-man ever!   
> I won't be writing anything including s11 canon until after the entire season has aired, so for now, she does not exist :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this character study, because it was so satisfying to write!

Mickey’s never liked the hospital, and the clinic isn’t any better. 

Too clean. Too quiet. Growing up in a hell storm of dirt and noise- the constantly unpredictable- makes it hard to trust anything that feels so sterile. 

He sits in the doctor’s office with his knee bouncing like a jackhammer, and reminds himself that he’s a fucking twenty-seven year old man who’s literally been to prison on more than one occasion. He shouldn’t be so goddamn nervous around white coats, but he is.

The thing about prison is- it’s ordered chaos. Sure you have to wake up and eat and  _ shit  _ when they tell you, but at least nobody pretends to be doing better than they actually are. There’s always a minor stabbing, always an illicit deal going down around the corner, and sadly enough Mickey hadn’t felt so out of place in the jumpsuit. 

He knows how to deal with it. 

But this- having someone with a patient smile and teeth that are a bit too white telling him that ‘things are going to be okay’ and that ‘trial and error is normal’- Mickey would rather molt out of his skin and disappear. 

“Mick.”

Mickey feels Ian’s hand on his thigh before he hears his voice, and his leg instantly stops mid-shake. He knows he’d been zoned out for too long, and that the reason he’s there at all is because Ian  _ needs _ to be. Doesn’t make it any less painful.

Honestly, it takes him back to a not so pleasant moment. Back when things looked pretty damn bleak for their relationship. Mickey had known jack shit about being bipolar. All he knew was that Ian was bouncing off of the walls for a week and then needed help showering the next. All he knew was that he couldn’t handle it on his own. 

Taking Ian to get his meds adjusted was like being tortured. Every time they had to go back felt like a kick in the gut. Like Mickey was doing something wrong- even though he knew deep down that’s not how it worked.

This time is no different. 

Well maybe just a little- they’re married now, after all, and Mickey doesn’t have to worry about if their relationship is going to work out. It  _ is  _ working out. Everyday, good or bad, it’s working out. They’ve figured out how to stick together, more or less, and it’s kind of amazing because neither one of them ever thought it would be a healthy and happy relationship but they’ve somehow arrived at that destination all the same. 

And so when Ian touches Mickey’s leg, asking him to try and calm down without actually saying those words out loud, Mickey takes his husband's hand instead of batting him away like he used to. There’s no pretending anymore- not with the matching wedding bands in plain view for the whole world to see. 

The doctor comes in, gives a brief introduction, and Ian starts describing the problem. He does it in a practised, relaxed way, like he’s done it so many times that the process doesn’t phase him. Mickey watches him in stunned silence. It’s been a while since he’s actually been to an appointment with Ian- when they got out of prison all the mandated visits were between Ian and his psychiatrist alone, with no bystanders allowed. This is the first time Ian’s had to set up an appointment outside of the routine schedule, and there was no way in hell Mickey was missing it. 

“It’s been a lot of  _ up _ lately. I’m not having any issues with taking my meds or doing any of the self care things my shrink recommended- nothin’ like that.” Ian gestures as he talks, and Mickey knows he does it when he’s trying to come across like he’s got most of his mental faculties in order. “It’s more just that I’ve got all this energy and I don’t know what to do with it- having trouble sleeping is always my first red flag that things are going downhill even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

The doctor- Hartling, it says on her name tag- nods respectfully as Ian continues. Mickey notices how she’s not writing anything down on her little notepad- a good sign, he hopes. 

“You’re a young, physically healthy guy,” Hartling offers when Ian takes a breather. “Your record tells me you’ve been really on-top of your diagnosis in the last few years. There is always the possibility that what’s happening is just a natural spike in energy. You’re an EMT, huh?” She taps the pen against her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You and I both know that’s a stressful career. Have you considered that might be a factor that’s preventing you from getting a good night’s sleep?”

Mickey feels his leg start to bounce again, even though he’s still gripping Ian’s hand like it might vanish if he lets it go. “Are you seriously trying to talk him outta this?” He interjects caustically, and Ian’s hold on his hand goes vice-like for a split second, squeezing his digits together forcefully. “The fuck kinda doctor does that?” 

“I’m just saying we don’t want to jump the gun.” Hartling holds her own. She looks at Mickey calmly, and for some reason the non-reaction makes Mickey’s blood boil even more. “Completely adjusting your meds at the first sign of a symptom can cause major dysregulation down the line if it’s not totally necessary. I’m assuming we don’t want that.” She’s looking at Mickey the entire time she’s speaking, but Mickey refuses to break eye contact first.

“Of course,” Ian sits forward in his seat and Hartling finally turns her attention to him, sending a crackle of relief through Mickey’s body. “I get what you’re saying. Really, I do. And I’d be totally on board if it wasn’t for-“ He stops talking and fidgets with Mickey’s fingers, wrinkling his nose up.

Mickey perks up at this. This is a part of the story even he doesn’t know. 

“For what?” Hartling prompts, and waits patiently for his answer. 

“I’ve been having hallucinations.” Ian explains quietly, and Mickey nearly bolts upright from the shitty plastic folding chair the walk-in clinic supplies in each room. It takes every ounce of his self restraint not to feel a little betrayal. Ian hadn’t told him that. Hadn’t said shit about seeing or hearing anything. 

“I see.” Hartling hums, and then she starts to scratch away at her little notepad, and Mickey swallows the huge fucking lump in his throat. “Are we talking visual, auditory, or tactile?”

“Mixture,” Ian shrugs. 

“Do you mind describing them to me? Gimme a sense of what we’re dealing with here?” Hartling requests.

There’s a period of tense silence as Ian’s eyes dart between the floor and his hands. This stuff isn’t easy to just spit out- sounds even crazier saying it to someone than it is actually having to experience it. 

“They’re nothing big, really. I’m not peeling my skin off because I’m crawling with bugs, if that’s what you’re imagining.” Ian starts, a disclaimer for what he’s about to say. He blows out a breath, and Mickey can hear the shake in it. “It’s… my mom. She, uh… passed away about five years ago.” 

Mickey didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

“Go on.” Hartling’s writing furiously in her notebook now but her facial features are still neutral- almost eerily so.

“Not sure what else to say.” Ian’s eyeing Mickey remorsefully, like he feels terrible that this is all coming out for the first time in a place that already drives his husband’s blood pressure through the roof. “It started happening about two weeks ago. It’s only really happened a few times, and I’ve always been aware that it’s a hallucination while it’s going down.” 

All Mickey can hear is Ian trying to downplay the gravity of it all. He wants to tell his husband to cut the shit, but he refrains, if only because he really wants to hear what comes next. 

“Anyway,” Ian sighs, and Mickey gears himself up for the worst of it, “usually it starts when Mick’s at work or something. I start hearing… her whispering. First time it happened I recognized her voice right away- I mean… how could I not. Tried to ignore it, but eventually it got louder. Like it was a full on conversation, ya know?” 

Hartling says nothing until she’s good and well finished writing down whatever she’s writing. “Alright. What was it saying to you, your mom’s voice?” She glances up at Ian, her face neutral and her affect flat. 

Ian gives Mickey another look, trying to gauge if what he’s saying is having an impact. Mickey tries to reassure him with a half smile, but he’s pretty sure it’s not very convincing considering he can’t keep his fucking leg from twitching to save his life. 

“She was… just sort of saying hi. Like she wanted to catch up. I knew it wasn’t real, so I was trying not to respond, but it just kept talking and talking. So eventually... I started talking back.” Ian looks embarrassed to be saying it out loud, and Mickey instinctively lets go of his hand to wrap an arm around his back and rub at the tightness he finds there. It helps calm Mickey down too, actually. “After a while, I just closed my eyes and when I opened them… I saw her. She was just standing in front of me, smiling. Sorry, I know this sounds fucking nuts.” 

Hartling stops scribbling at her pad in the middle of a word, and shakes her head adamantly. “Mr. Gallagher, what you’re describing are some of the most common types of hallucinations. They’re not exclusive to your disorder either! I’ve heard everything you’re saying a million times before.”

Mickey knows that it’s supposed to make them feel better- that other people go through what Ian apparently goes through- but honestly, it doesn’t. 

“Here’s some good news though,” Hartling flips backward through the notepad, “You seem to be having the hallucinations without the delusions. It’s an excellent sign that you know it’s not really your mom.” She places the notepad back in the pocket of her white coat, swapping it out for the little yellow prescription pad that Mickey’s become so familiar with. 

“I’m gonna up your ziprasidone to a hundred milligrams a day, alright? Should put a stop to the hallucinations.” Hartling scrawls an illegible set of instructions on the slip and rips it from the pad, handing it to Ian. Mickey watches as Ian nods distantly, folding the slip up edge over edge until it’s a tiny square in between his fingers. “We’ll also start you on a dose of lithium at lunchtime in addition to morning and evening, just to try and get a jump on the hypomania.” She addresses Mickey directly then, pointing at him in a way that makes him instantly defensive. “I’d recommend you keep a close eye on your husband for the next few weeks to see if you notice any major changes.” 

“Always do.” Mickey grunts, standing up abruptly, and digging his hat and gloves out of his jacket pocket- the one he hadn’t bothered taking off just in case he needed to book it out of the clinic in a hurry. “Looks like we’re done here, thanks a million, doc.” Mickey gently nudges Ian’s ankle with the toe of his boot. 

Ian seems to jolt out of his dazed state, pocketing the folded prescription and standing. He turns to gather his jacket from where it’s hung over the back of the chair, and by then Mickey’s already at the door with his hat pulled down snuggly over his ears, ready to brave the frigid Chicago winter awaiting them outside of the clinic. 

Slipping one arm into the sleeve of his jacket, Ian extends it to shake Hartling’s hand as he locates the other sleeve and shrugs into it. “Good to meet you, doc. Thanks for everything.”

Hartling gives his hand a solid shake. “My pleasure fellas.” She smiles and jerks her head in Mickey’s direction. “Now get him out of here before he bolts, okay?” 

Ian snickers and nods, heading towards the door. Mickey has migrated from inside of the room to just outside of the doorway, standing rigidly against the wall. “Ready to go Mick?” Ian bumps his husband's hip with his own when he exits the office and starts down the hallway without waiting for a reply. 

“Been fuckin’ ready since we got here,” Mickey snaps, widening his strides to catch up with Ian. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for pie.”

  
  
  


“So you’re seein’ Monica, huh?” 

Ian’s got a heaping forkful of coconut cream pie raised almost all the way to his mouth when Mickey poses the question. He stops for a few seconds to make eye contact with his husband, before he completes the motion, chewing leisurely. 

“Yeah, about that…” Ian mutters once he’s swallowed and taken a gulp of water from the glass at his side. 

“ _ About that _ ,” Mickey mimics and Ian has to stop himself from laughing, because he knows his husband is not really joking around, but his eyebrows are doing that thing, where they’re way too high up on his forehead to be taken seriously. “You didn’t think to fuckin’ mention that to me, maybe?” 

Ian straightens his back and gives Mickey a once over. They’re sitting in their usual corner booth at Patsy’s, and they managed to arrive smack dab in between the lunch and dinner rush, so the place is pretty vacant and quiet- just how Mickey likes it. The diner was taken over by new owners shortly after Fiona skipped town and despite the prices of the food raising by a couple cents, they stuck to the old menu. Whenever Mickey has a pie craving Ian knows just where to take him. The staff know them by name and by order- Ian  _ always _ has a slice of coconut cream and a water, and Mickey  _ always _ has a slice of cherry and a coffee-  _ black _ . It’s their little routine, and Ian isn’t surprised that Mickey is in need of a little routine at the moment. 

“Fuck. I know, I’m sorry Mick.” Ian apologizes. Since they’ve been married for nearly a year and a half now, he’s gotten slightly better at admitting he’s wrong right away, instead of playing a few dozen rounds of the blame game before coming to the same conclusion anyway. “I was trying to figure out how to tell you without scaring the shit outta you.” 

“How about-  _ ‘Yo, I’m seeing my dead mom alive and in the fuckin’ flesh over here _ ’. That woulda worked.” Mickey rolls his eyes, but Ian doesn’t take it personally. He knows by now how Mickey shows that he’s concerned- it’s passive aggressive, with an emphasis on  _ aggressive- _ but it’s a very  _ Mickey _ type of care and Ian’s learned to love it. “Anything woulda been better than hearing it for the first time in front of that know-it-all bitch.”

Ian snorts and reaches down to his side, pulling the little baggie of his meds out from his jacket pocket, and throwing it out onto the table. “She’s a doctor, man. She kinda needs to be a know-it-all.” They’d stopped by the pharmacy and exchanged the crumpled prescription for the actual pills before swinging around to Patsy’s.

Mickey drains his coffee from the little mug, and shoves it out towards the outer lip of the table, knowing that a waitress will be over to give him a refill as soon as she notices. He’s got a shift at Old Army coming up in a few hours and he’s still clearly cranky from having to cut his sleep short for the appointment- he needs as much coffee as he can get.

“She was tryna minimize the shit you were telling her,” Mickey insists, reaching across the table to snag the paper bag, and rummaging around for one of the bottles. He takes out one of the yellow bottles and holds it up to the natural light, watching the tiny white capsules rolling against the bottom when he shakes it slightly. It’s the same shit Ian’s been taking for years now- just more of it, Mickey guesses. 

“She was just playing devil’s advocate,” Ian offers, pushing the final bite of pie around on his plate. “I’d rather have a little push back than someone who just fuckin’ prescribes pills- no questions asked.”

Mickey makes a noise, halfway through a grunt and sigh- and Ian knows it means he understands but doesn’t totally agree. He replaces the pill bottle back into the paper bag and slides it over to Ian. “Still think she was being a cunt about it.” He grumbles. “How’s she gonna tell you that you don’t know when something’s wrong with your own brain?”

Ian shrugs. “Sometimes I don’t.” He points out, and catches Mickey’s boot between his ankles under the table, giving his husband's leg a loving tug. “You’re just on edge because you hate the clinic.” 

“Sue me.” Mickey nods in thanks at the mousey waitress who refills his coffee without being asked. “Feels like I’m wheelin’ you in for a fuckin’ lobotomy every time.”

Ian snorts. “You say  _ every time _ , like it happens every week or some shit. It’s been, like, six months since I had to get my meds adjusted. I think that’s pretty good progress.”

Mickey can’t exactly disagree. Back when he was first diagnosed, Ian was in the clinic every other week, trying to figure out how the fuck to get some sort of balance back in his brain. Mickey stares out the window as he tries to stop thinking about how dark those times were. The snow banks outside are nothing but grey slush, cigarette butts and other eclectic pieces of garbage littered around like sprinkles on the shittiest ice cream sundae ever created. 

“That’s not the point,” Mickey mutters, fighting back at Ian’s attempts to capture him under the table with a few halfhearted kicks, “Point is, I’m allowed to hate the fuckin’ clinic. If I’m rememberin’ correctly,  _ I’m _ the one who used to have to drag  _ your _ ass there all the time.”

“I was a troubled, mentally ill teenager,” Ian points out, not venomously, but just because it’s technically true. “What’s your excuse?” It’s meant as a joke, and Mickey’s not actually supposed to legitimately have an answer- but he does. 

“Mom used to drag us to the clinic all the time,” Mickey comments off handedly. Ian stops chewing for a split second and glances up at his husband through his eyelashes. By the way Mickey stares back at him, it’s clear that neither of them were expecting it. 

Ian had always talked about Monica. Even back in their teens, back before the shotgun wedding, going AWOL from the military, and nearly escaping into the Mexican sunset- Ian had always laid his grief about his absent mother at Mickey’s feet. He’d always looked like her, thought like her, suffered like her. He resented her the most while she was alive and mourned her the most when she passed. 

Mickey hadn’t had the same track record with his own mother, not that Ian knew very much about the woman. He was pretty sure she wasn’t alive anymore- Ian had said as much to Mandy a long  _ long _ time ago and Mandy hadn’t said anything to suggest he was wrong. 

Mickey doesn’t talk about it. Ian doesn’t ask. Mickey had opened up tremendously over the years- physically, emotionally, sexually- in just about every way he could. Ian feels like he knows his husband like the back of his own fucking hand, yet some traumas are still buried too deep to mine for, and this particular subject had always been one of them. 

“Why’s that?” Ian asks, rather idiotically. If he had taken even a fraction of a second to think it through, the answer would have been glaringly obvious. As it is, he’s still trying to process the fact that Mickey brought it up to begin with, so he misses the part where he shouldn’t have asked. 

Mickey sniffs and coughs against his sleeve. “She had to, sometimes. When Terry went fuckin’ postal and took shit too far.” 

Ian feels his blood grow cold as it surges towards his thumping heart. They made it a practise not to talk about Terry, either. After Terry had been locked up the last time, Mickey had smoked the biggest blunt he could roll, knocked back a beer and proclaimed to everyone who would listen that his bastard of a father’s name wouldn’t be passing through his lips again until the day he could identify the fucking body himself. 

“Oh. Shit.” Ian mumbles, and wipes his palms down the front of his jeans. He knows he should just leave it at that, but now he just feels like there are some things he needs to know. “How was that never reported? How did you never end up in a group home?” 

Mickey's leg is bouncing again, Ian can feel it under the table, but Mickey’s doing an amazing job of looking uneffected, as per usual.

“Fuck knows, man.” Mickey shrugs and when the same waitress sweeps past to casually drop the bill down onto the table, he snatches it before Ian can stop him, leaving the man slapping aimlessly at the tabletop where the piece of paper had been. “Free clinic. Different doctor every time. She always came up with these pretty detailed stories about how we got so fucked up- Ma could lie like a goddamn rug if she had to.” Mickey actually smiles fondly at this statement. Maybe the subject matter is grim, but Ian knows what it’s like to pretend your parents weren’t as dogshit as they were. 

Ian wants to ask more, but he stops himself because Mickey’s probably one wrong question away from shutting the whole topic down. Luckily, Ian doesn’t have to do anything for Mickey to keep talking. 

“She looked strung out even when she was stone cold sober.” Mickey muses. He stares down at the bill in his hands for a long time, like he’s trying to memorize the numbers or something, and Ian doesn’t do anything to hamper the moment other than to fish around in his jacket pocket for the car keys. “They took one look at ‘er and knew she was bullshitting. How could they  _ not _ ? A kid doesn’t get a black eye from a snowball fight two weeks in a fuckin’ row.” He kind of sounds like he’s ranting now, and Ian just let’s him.

Mickey crumples the bill slightly in his grip, before flattening it back out on the table- anything to keep his fingers busy. “The older I got the more I realized she was always one fuckin’ slip up away from having us all separated and shipped off to who the hell knows where.” 

Ian takes advantage of Mickey’s absent mindedness, reaching out a long arm across the table to snatch the bill the moment Mickey leaves it unattended for a fraction of a second. Mickey’s reflexes are quick, but not quicker than Ian’s, and he curses when the little slip of paper is out of reach. 

“You coulda been placed with a family that sings hymns in the car and attends church every day of the week- and twice on Sundays.” Ian comments cheekily. He knows that the topic probably deserves more reverence than he’s willing to give it, but he also knows that Mickey won’t mind the jokes. They’ve both been through unspeakable shit throughout their lives, and they know it’s not a dick measuring competition- their baggage comes in very different shapes and sizes, but it’s all baggage regardless. 

“I woulda murdered them all.” Mickey says without hesitation, and Ian cackles. “Someone tries to get me to sing a hymn and they’re gonna start losin’ limbs.”

“Every time DCFS got involved with us, it turned into a bigger shit show than it already was.” Ian muses. He’s still making a concerted effort to play footsies with Mickey under the table, and Mickey’s started kicking at him indiscriminately whenever he gets too pushy. “The families were always garbage, like they just wanted the money or something. And they’d always look at me like I was a wounded animal. It was like,  _ fuck off with your pity _ . Ya know?”

Mickey nodded. “Guess that’s the problem, huh? You don’t get how shitty it is for the soldier until you’re in the fuckin’ trenches.”

Ian sits back in his seat and stills himself, staring at Mickey. His husband. It’s hard for him, sometimes, to remember that the man he sleeps next to, is the same dirty, bruised up juvenile delinquent who’d beaten on the door to the supply closet he was hiding in. 

Sometimes the shit that came out of Mickey’s mouth made more sense to Ian than anything he’d ever learned in therapy. 

Finally, Ian breaks himself out of his stupor and grabs his coat, sliding it on as he stands, slapping his pockets to locate his wallet. He’s still got the bill clutched in his fist because he knows the minute he loses sight of it, Mickey won’t hesitate to steal it back.

“That’s real poetic, Mick,” Ian teases, and moves his leg before Mickey can kick at it again. “You should really write that shit down-” 

“Maybe I fuckin’ will!” Mickey snorts and stands from his side of the booth, and pulls on his own coat and hat and gloves. Ian sees him pull his pack of smokes from the pocket and knows that Mickey’s resigned himself to not paying for lunch- he’s planning on having a cigarette while he waits for Ian to pay. “Anyway, my  _ point- _ if you’ll let me fuckin’ get there- is that those families don’t know dick about who you actually are. They just see some dirt poor kid whose family shit the bed enough for DCFS to notice.” Mickey tugs the collar of his jacket up around his ears, bracing himself for the cold that awaits him just outside. “They don’t actually know  _ you _ .”

With that Mickey squeezes Ian's shoulder and heads towards the door, the cigarette already clenched between his lips. Ian watches him go, and reminds himself of what he’s known all along- no one has ever given Mickey the credit he deserves.

Not even Ian, a lot of the time. 

And yet still, they managed to stick through it. Over and over, good and bad. 

Sickness.

Health.

_ All that shit. _

Ian knows everything Mickey’s just finished saying is true. Family is made up of the people who  _ know _ you.

That’s probably why, after Ian pays the waitress behind the counter- giving her a generous tip of whatever he can spare- and joins Mickey out on the sidewalk, he feels like despite the bullshit in his brain and the bullshit in his life, he’s most likely the luckiest motherfucker alive. 

And that’s definitely why, as they stroll to where the car is parked, Ian presses Mickey to his side a little bit tighter, kisses the side of his head a little bit longer, and thanks the fucking universe that he has someone with him in the trenches.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comment to let me know what you think! <3


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